Conversation on idle things
by dark angel121
Summary: But I know about art and love, if only because I long for it with every fiber of my being" Moulin Rouge . AU. A telling of longing and love, amongst other idle things.


Disclaimer: I had no hand during the creation of these characters. Therefore I claim no ownership of any kind.

Author's Note: I really haven't the faintest idea what this is really. It just a jumble of ideas come together to make a semblance of a story, one that I'm not all that confident in. It's corny and cheesy at times, and rather random at others. I still hope it fashions as some sort of entertainment. I also hope that Ron doesn't seem out of place. Sure he's not Mr. Sensitive, but my Ron isn't a complete dunce. Maybe this shows in the story, or maybe I've set him in the most random senseless role to date. You decide.

Reviews are always welcome. They're one of the many highlights in my otherwise mundane life.

Enjoy.

**Conversations on Idle Things**

At night he saw her. A lovely figure silhouetted against curtains drawn, and each time he prayed for a sweltering heat to fill the room so that her delicate hands would push open the sheet of glass, sashed and framed. The curtains would flutter and sway in the cool night air, and she would lean an arm on the ledge to look out and up at the sky; at the quarter moon with its wry face; at the stars scattered and winking before fading with age; at the tree tops that dot the walk, and at the cluster of buildings off in the distance.

And he hoped that she would stay in this position forever if only it gave him permission to look at her face, at her large dark eyes sparking in wonder; at the wild mass of curls teasing the curve of her cheek; at the grace of her neck and the slight tilt to her shoulders. He'd often wonder if he would ever muster the courage or steal the pleasure of speaking to her, but for now he would content himself with this simple pleasure; this aching need to remain hidden but ever present.

"Never knew you had it in you, mate," a voice much too close to his left ear said and Harry jerked in his seat, his arm swinging wildly causing his quill to jump out of reach and knock the bottle down.

Ink thick and black oozed across the desk and soaked the page. Harry swore. "See what you did?"

"What? Me? You're the one jumping around like a crazy person."

"A crazy person?"

"I'm all out of witty repartee."

"Too bad. I needed to get the creative juices flowing."

"Looks like you've already got something flowing, and I don't mean the ink."

Harry threw Ron a raised brow. "That's the best innuendo you can come up with?"

"Hand me a bottle of that and I'll give you innuendo."

Harry reached across the desk to grab a bottle of Butterbeer. He screwed it open and handed him the bottle.

Ron took a long pull, belched and sighed in delight. "I thought I'd come in here and pull you away from work. Get you back into civilization and all."

"This book won't write itself, you know," said Harry, taking a drink from his own bottle.

"I know a handy spell."

Harry aimed a half hearted kick in Ron's direction.

"Oh come on," his friend said. "Tons of great authors have cheated now and then."

"Name one."

"George Howling. Think he wrote those last few heavy tomes himself? No no my friend. It was the quill that worked the magic."

Harry scrubbed a hand over his face then through his hair. "Yeah, you're not helping."

Ron accioed a chair and sat beside him. "Okay, so how can I help?"

"You can leave-"

" 'At night he saw her. A lovely figure silhouetted against curtains drawn'…very nice Harry. Very poetic."

"Shut it."

"I'm giving constructive criticism here."

"How is that constructive?"

" 'The curtains would flutter and sway in the cool night air, and she would lean an arm on the ledge to look out and up at the sky; at the quarter moon with its wry face'… I dunno, I'm getting a creepy feeling from this bloke."

Harry fell back in his seat in exasperation heaving a sigh. "Really," he said.

He wasn't going to get any work done today.

"Yeah, you know, what with him stalking her house and all."

"He's not stalking her house."

"The man is standing outside her window! And here, look here," at this point Ron said aloud, " 'And each time he prayed for a sweltering heat to fill the room.' Each time? What, does he go there every night just to stare at this woman?"

"What? No! Well…yes. It's supposed to be romantic." Harry spluttered in defense.

"Romantic, eh? Interesting your views of romance."

"Oh, give it here!"

Harry swiped at the page in his friend's hand, but his seeker reflexes betrayed him, allowing Ron to dart back saying, "Oh it's not all that bad. I mean look right here, 'And he hoped that she would stay in this position forever if only it gave him permission to look at her face, at her large dark eyes sparking in wonder; at the wild mass of curls teasing the curve of her cheek'…" Ron paused in the narrative and gave Harry a funny sort of grin.

"What?" said Harry, shifting his shoulder in what could only be mild embarrassment.

"Would the dark eyes happen to resemble an evanescent shade of- how do you writers describe it-Chocolate brown?"

"I said give it he-"

"And you know, if you replace wild with big and bushy, things just might be a little more accurate but no, wild is pretty damn poetic of you isn't it?"

Harry accioed the page and set it down upon the desk. "Right, that's it. Out."

"Not until you come out."

"Ron. I'm working."

"No, you're writing about a creepy fellow who hides in the bushes to watch a chocolate eyed, wild haired woman, who in a sweaty fit because he's magically set the room ablaze, has opened the windows to cool off and she's too busy looking at the moon, some trees and old buildings to notice the bugger staring up at her probably wanking off at the sight of her graceful, but abnormally long neck. Oh and her shoulders are tilted. Why are they tilted?"

"Out."

"No."

"Is he still in here?" Hermione called from the hallway through the open door.

Yes, the door was still open.

"Why is the door open?" she asked, stepping through and shutting the door behind her.

"Because Ron was just leaving, and what are you doing here? I told you I working today." said Harry rubbing his temples.

"Oh Harry, we both know that you're just going to spend an hour dictating to your quill, another hour drinking and the rest of the day moping about what a horrible writer you are, which you are not. So we're going to have some lunch then go out for a walk." she said coming up behind him and wrapping her arms around his shoulders in an awkward yet affectionate 'hello'.

Harry brought a hand up to her arm and gave it a squeeze. He knew she was reading the page over his head and just waited.

"Well?" He said after what he summed to be a sufficient amount of time.

"Well what?" said Hermione, reaching for Harry's bottle. "Did you eat?"

"You know very well that I haven't," he said.

"Not much to eat in here anyway," said Ron who was already going through the fridge.

"I was going to buy food later," Harry called out indignantly.

"And by later you mean after you finish your book right?"

"Yeah."

Ron looked to Hermione. "So should I call Luna to send some food over? She's shopping right now."

"Don't bother. I remember seeing some things for sandwiches in the drawer." she said.

"I looked there wasn't anything."

"Look harder."

"Really? Harder? Should I?"

"Ron…" Hermione said in a warning tone.

"You want ham or turkey, mate?"

"Ham."

"You had ham this morning, Harry." Hermione said, standing over him.

"Yeah, but I only had a bit."

She gave him a stern look.

"Gimme the turkey, Ron."

"You're the boss."

"Did you just start this, Harry?"

Harry turned to look at Hermione who now had the single sheet in hand. "Well there's only the one sheet on the desk, isn't there?" he said.

"Hmm."

"What 'Hmm'? Why 'Hmm'?"

"Nothing."

"Oh come on Hermione. You can't just make that sound and mean nothing. What's wrong with it?"

"I said nothing. The writing's good."

"It's just that…" he said, waiting for her to continue.

"It's just that…your character here…he seems, well, a little odd."

"And by odd she means creepy," Ron offered.

Harry told him to shut it and cut the tomatoes.

"Shut it and cut the tomatoes."

"Yes, mum."

Harry ignored him and turned to Hermione who was looking hesitant. "Creepy? He's not creepy," he said.

"I didn't say he was creepy," said Hermione. "He's just a little unsettling."

"That's the same thing."

"Well, he's standing outside her window."

"He's not _right _outside her window."

"Then where is he?"

"He's…hidden….in the bushes." Harry finished in a small voice, not meeting her eye.

There was a momentary pause filled by a cough and then, "And how is that romantic in any way?" Hermione said.

"Well, he's pining."

"For the lovely woman standing by the window?"

"No, he's pining for the curtains. They're a lovely shade of red. Of course he wants the woman."

"Then why does he have to stalk her each night? Why can't he just go up and talk to her?"

"Well if you two would allow me to get past two paragraphs then maybe-"

"And why doesn't she notice him?"

"Why doesn't she what?"

"Notice him. If he goes there and stands by her window every night, she's had to have noticed him at some point."

Harry stared at her.

"Well, it's dark."

"It's not pitch black, Harry. Don't be a fool."

"Who's the author here?"

"I'm tossing in some bacon!" shouted Ron.

"That's too much meat already, Ron." she said.

He gave her a doleful look. "But I'm _pining_, Hermione."

Harry turned to him and scowled. "Wanker."

"Ponce."

"Git."

"Arse."

"I'm sorry," Hermione interrupted them, "how old are you two exactly?"

"Old enough to eat bacon," said Ron.

"Enough with the bacon!" said Hermione.

Harry laughed at the two of them. "Okay, it's been great but I really need to get back to work now."

"Not until you eat and not until you fix up your flawed characters."

Ron whistled as he washed his hands. "Dunno about you Hermione, but that sounded a bit harsh there."

"I think Harry is old enough to take constructive criticism."

Harry blinked scratched his head in agitation. "I don't think you understand me here. I can only fix them by writing them out of their mess, and I can't write with you two in the room."

The smell and sound of bacon sizzling filled the apartment and waving the spatula, Ron said, "Just pretend we're not here then."

Then he jerked an arm back as the oil splashed his way.

For a moment, Harry wished its aim was true.

"Why don't you write her calling him up to meet her?" she said, still looking at the sheet.

Harry looked at Hermione.

"I can't."

"Why?"

"Because it's too soon for them to meet."

"So you're going to have him just sit and wait and watch her for a couple more paragraphs?" she asked incredulously.

"No, I'm going to have him stand and wait and watch her for a couple more pages."

"You're joking."

"I'm dead serious."

"What kind of woman would allow herself to be attracted to a man that's too frightened to say hello?"

"This woman." Harry said, tapping the page.

"But he's hiding in the dark watching her like a child."

Harry shrugged. "Well maybe he is a little bit of a child, but that fear and longing add that bit of aching suspense to the story."

Hermione shook her head. "No woman in her right mind will fall for that man and even if she does, something might not even come of it. He's too much of a coward to make anything happen."

"He's not a coward," Harry said. "See now this is why you need to give me more time because just looking at what I have so far tells you that he's shy. He's scared. And you think that because of his actions he's a coward, but that's because you don't know him yet. All you see is what I've given you, but there's more underneath and there's more to be fleshed out and painted.

See, if you give me more time I can show you that what looks like cowardice is actually awe. I can show you how he's in awe by this woman; rendered speechless by her beauty and held captive by her character."

"But how can her character have any effect on him when all he sees of her is what leans out the window?" said Hermione who now took a seat in Ron's vacant chair.

"But that's just it, right there. Her character or a shadow of it is just what he sees when she's at the window."

Hermione shook her head, her eyes lifting from the page to his face. "I don't understand."

Ron, who was arranging the salad at the counter, smiled quietly and added some strawberries.

Harry leaned forward in his seat, bracing his forearms on his knees staring avidly at her. "Hermione, don't you see? It's in that moment that everything peels and falls away. She's thinking no one is watching so she has nothing to guard herself against; no one to play off to. She thinks that it's just her and the moon and the stars and the cold brick of the buildings. She's in a moment that's all hers and in that she's naked and bare. And it's there, right there, where he can read her like a…like a billboard stretched across the highway.

She might not be talking to him, but he feels that just by watching her chin rest on an open palm, words flow easily in a steady stream. When he sees her smiling at the moon, it's as if she's divulging words that she wouldn't to any other. Her eyes looking over at the buildings speak of a loneliness that could match his own, while the curve of her lips tells him of content and the crease in her eyes talks of worry."

"But that is a given, Harry. Anyone can tell from a smile that someone is happy," she said.

"Yeah, but she's not just anyone to him." was his reasoning.

Hermione stayed silent for a moment, letting his words fester and stew much like the concoction Ron was now stirring in the pan.

She looked at the sheet again, eyes scanning the words eloquently written. The calligraphy wasn't his own, but the words they conveyed sure were.

The picture played through her mind, running like a silent film all black and white.

And the man, fearful of the emotion bursting within his breast, could only express what he most surely desired to with the direction of his eyes, permitting them to rise and fall and rest upon moonlit skin and windswept hair.

And maybe she was aware of him. And maybe she wasn't. And maybe she was dreaming of someone like him to do just what he was doing; watching, and wondering and, yes even pining.

For what else can a Prince Charming do, besides sweep a girl off her feet and make her happy?

He can pine, and he can lust, and he can watch and make her feel wanted.

Hermione was smiling now and she hadn't the faintest idea as to why she was doing so. Harry had an explanation for everything, and she wondered just what tale he would spin with the addition of yet another question. What would he say if she nitpicked just one last time?

"And what of her shoulders?" she said, "What story do they tell?"

The corner of his lips quirked in amusement, and she knew that he was anticipating this question, maybe ready to have her swooning and sighing in romantic delight.

"Her shoulders," Harry said as if thinking it over, and maybe he was. Maybe these questions were helping him develop these characters, or maybe he knew them the moment the quill struck the parchment.

"Her shoulders," he said again, his voice rising slightly against the hum of the kitchen fan. "Well that's easy isn't it? The tilt of her shoulders tells him of her insecurities."

Hermione waited for him to continue, but Harry stayed silent and Ron shut off the fan having done cooking and was now adding the final touches to the sandwiches.

Hermione waited for more, but more never came.

"That's it?" she said. "Her insecurities? No flowery descriptions involving sensations and warmth? No melodramatic retellings of murmuring seduction?"

"No."

Hermione tilted her head.

"Why?"

"Because he doesn't need any embellishment there."

"And why is that?" she asked him.

Ron was setting the table.

Harry was looking at her.

"Because he already knows that he's the drug." he said.


End file.
